The man came up behind her, his gaze darting uncomfortably between the marred pink walls and the back of his wife’s head. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but she stiffened. He opened his mouth to say something, but she turned on her heel and continued down the hall before the words came to him.
Bedrooms, bathrooms, linen closets—it went on and on down the central hallway and then another winding corridor that led to a wing over the garage. “Will you look at this place? It never ends!” the husband said, hoping to brighten the mood.
“It’s enormous,” she agreed almost under her breath. There were seven bedrooms and three full bathrooms. Big enough to get lost in. “I could have a studio here . . .”
One of the doors opened to a narrow staircase that led up to the third floor. The extra space sealed it for the man. Standing in the cavernous attic, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Paul? This is Myron. Say, how much cash can we free up in the next thirty days?”
His wife turned a slow circle, stopping to look out one of the dormer windows down to the sidewalk below where she’d stood ten minutes earlier, on the outside looking in. Along the opposite wall, someone had scrawled in light pencil: and we shall plant four trees, one at each corner for each Angel that speaks. She puzzled at it.
“This place is a steal. You wouldn’t believe the finishes. The millwork alone would cost a mint in Boston . . . I know, but Margot’s got her heart set.”
His wife turned her head. I do?
“Yeah. For the right price . . . Of course. I’ll let you know.” Myron hung up the phone and turned to his wife. “You have to admit it’s a great bargain, hon.”
“But . . . are you sure we need all this?”
“Are you kidding? This place is a gold mine! They only want a hundred and eighty thousand? It would cost three or four million back in Boston, easy. We’ve been looking for days and haven’t seen anything close to this. Admit it.”
Her frown deepened to a plea. “I know, but . . . do we really have to do this? I’m not sold, Myron. Not on the house. Not on the move . . . What about Hunter? I’m not sure I feel comfortable making him leave all his friends, his school. It’s his senior year. He has such a hard time fitting in.”
“I know you’re worried, but this could be good for him. We talked about this.” Myron sighed, and his shoulders slumped with impatience and looming defeat. “We both agreed that it’s our best option after everything that’s happened.”
Margot bit her painted lip. After everything that’s happened.
“I can’t go back, Margot. I quit. The Cleveland Clinic is the dream job I’ve been waiting for. You know that. We have a chance to start over here. Let’s just make the best of it. Okay? We could all use a fresh start.” He picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze. “This could be great for us.”
Margot forced a nod, holding a brave face until he turned his attention elsewhere. Somewhere in the yawning space behind her, a floorboard shifted with a muffled creak. She turned toward the sound only to see the bathroom light glowing yellow at the end of the long empty room. She scanned the closed doors of the servants’ quarters and the crawl spaces. They stared blankly back.
The taunts spray-painted on the walls below her seemed to whisper in the corners of the attic.
Welcome to Hell House!
2
The couple returned to the front foyer five minutes later. The sales agent put away her phone and flashed them a broad smile. “Well? What did you think?”
“I think we’ve seen enough. Can we come back tomorrow? I’d like to bring in a contractor.” Myron pretended not to see his wife’s distressed reaction to this.
“Really?” The woman blinked in disbelief. “That’s wonderful. But. Um. If you two are serious about an offer, I suppose there’s something you should know.”
Margot stopped surveying the house as though she’d lost something and shot her husband another look. “I’m sorry. What?”
“This is a little awkward, but my firm has implemented a strict policy to fully disclose any potential . . . stigma associated with a property.” She cleared her throat. “This house has a bit of a history. There’s been talk about it anyway.”
Myron took a step closer to his wife and narrowed his eyes. “What history exactly?”
“Well.” The woman straightened her poorly tailored suit. Moments before this latest couple had arrived, she’d been on the phone complaining, This damn house is never going to sell, Howard! Even for a foreclosure, it’s hopeless. You can tell the bank to get another agent. “There’s been talk. Keep in mind Shaker Heights is really a small town at heart—that’s why folks love it the way they do—but like in any small town, rumors can take on a life of their own.”
Myron’s expression brightened ever so slightly at the words small town. He had explained their situation to the woman well. They were looking for a good investment. A fixer-upper that they could make their own. Something with character. A small town with good schools. A bit of land. A real home for themselves and their teenage son, who had wandered into the room with the bloodstained mattress above them.
“None of the rumors are substantiated, mind you,” she went on, with a false laugh, “but some buyers . . . they’re so easily spooked.”
The words Not you two, though were left unsaid. Myron nodded in agreement, but Margot’s worry lines deepened. “What sort of rumors?”
“All kinds of urban legends have sprung up about this house. Some say the original owner, Mr. Rawlings, was murdered. Some say his wife went mad. Some claim a high school girl died here a few years back from a drug overdose.” The woman waved the horrible theories away with her hand.
The couple stared at her a moment and then lifted their gaze up the carved wood staircase winding from the foyer to the second floor. The house stood perfectly still as though listening. The sound of a woman screaming threatened to break out from somewhere inside the walls above the dusty chandelier, but the house held its breath.
“That’s awful,” Margot whispered and silently pleaded with her husband, We can’t buy this place!
“But none of the rumors have proven to be true. Is that right?” Myron asked, ignoring his wife for the moment.
“I haven’t seen one shred of proof. But that doesn’t stop the talk that the house might be . . . well, haunted.”
Myron raised his eyebrows. “Haunted.”
Margot let out an uncomfortable humph.
“You might run into an elderly neighbor or two that will try to convince you that they’ve seen ghosts or that the house is ‘cursed.’” The agent made a point to roll her eyes and shake her head. “I wouldn’t pay it any mind. Several families have lived here quite happily over the years, this latest foreclosure notwithstanding, of course.”
All around them, remnants of the other families lingered—fingerprints, paint colors, nail holes, scars, stains. Margot traced their footsteps up the stairs and down the hall, settling on a far wall where someone had spray-painted words in bright red.
Murder House!
The sales agent followed her gaze. “Unfortunately, any vacant house can attract vandals, as I’m sure you understand. Even in Shaker Heights. There are many options if you’d like to have a security system installed, but I can assure you the police patrol the street regularly.”